"If I could get the first little book out,--and reviewed in the papers
that count,--I have enough verses for a second, to follow at once, and
catch the favoring breeze;--but if there is no first, how can there be a
second?"
Phyllis shook her head. The idiosyncrasies of the publishing trade were
beyond her comprehension. How they could refuse such beautiful--Well!
"I had a proposal from Kendall, Ransome & Company yesterday afternoon
that I meant to have told you about--only Miss Neville's and Mark
Holroyd's coming to spend the evening knocked it out of my head."
"Wasn't it dear of them! Didn't Peggy look sweet in that blue gown? What
was the proposal, John? Any proposal is encouraging isn't it?" asked
Phyllis.
"I suppose so," John answered, running his hand through his hair. "But
this one couldn't be accepted under the circumstances They offered to
publish the book if I would pay the cost of printing and relinquish
copyright."
"The idea!" exclaimed Phyllis.
"I laughed at it myself," replied John. "I had another reason for
laughing than the one they knew, though. For, really, I am so sure of my
little book that I might have accepted the offer--if I had the money."
"Would it cost a great sum?" inquired Phyllis.
"Something less than fifty pounds for the first edition; a small
edition. If there were a second, of course, they would pay the charges,
but I should get nothing."
Phyllis sat sewing thoughtfully. Suddenly John saw that her eyes were
filled with tears.
"If there weren't me to think of, you might--" she began.
John had her in his arms in the big chair in less time than it takes to
tell it. When her troubled heart was comforted, he returned to his desk.
"However, I have been the rounds of the publishers now. I started with
the best and I have seen them all. I have condescended to the smallest.
I have even tried the Populars. But it has all been of no use. Same
story everywhere. 'Marked ability, but we regret.'"
"If you had friends with influence----" Phyllis began, but John
interrupted her.
"I wouldn't if I could, and I haven't if I would," said he. "But the
fact is there's less of that than you think. 'Pull' isn't required; I
can say that even when I am at the end of my rope. Books are published
honestly, on their quality; mine simply hasn't the quality the public
likes. It may be Art--but will it sell? That's the question."
Having plumbed the depths, John took up his pen again; his chin resolute
as ever.
That evening when Mrs. Farquharson tapped at the door, John was teaching
Phyllis chess.
"Just in time, Farquharson," said Phyllis. "I am routed horse and
foot--by a man without a queen, too."
The chessboard was set aside; a chair brought forward; but Mrs.
Farquharson would not sit down; she rarely would when John was present.
"No, my dear, no. I just dropped in for a minute--not to disturb ever.
Besides, Genevieve's walking out with her young man, and there's the
bell to watch. No, I just dropped in to say that Mr. Rowlandson--the
rooms over yours, Mr. Landless--Mr. Rowlandson says, 'Tell the young
lady she may like to go up to my rooms some morning when I am not there
to bother her,' he says, 'and look at my fans and patch-boxes. They're
pretty, too,' says he, 'as pretty as her valentines.' And so they are,
my deary dear, and you must go up and see them. Oh, yes, he knows all
about your valentines. He bought them for your uncle, at your father's
sale, and a pretty penny they cost. More than two hundred pounds. It
seems your uncle was bidding against some public institution."
Mrs. Farquharson replaced the proffered chair.
"Is the poetry book to be out soon, sir?" she asked. "I hope so, I am
sure. I'm that anxious to see your name in gold letters on the cover.
Good-night, sir. Good-night, my dear. Are you certain you don't want
more coals? Well, then, good-night."
John and Phyllis had their usual good-night talk by the fire.
"And so Mark Holroyd and the Honorable Margaret are engaged," said John,
replacing a fallen coal with the tongs.
Phyllis put her feet on the low, brass fender, and tucked in her skirt.
"Yes, they are engaged," she replied. "It is to be announced very soon.
Peggy says it shouldn't be called an engagement, but rather a two-year
probationary period. She could hardly wait to tell me. The darling! That
was why she was so anxious to help me unwrap the rug in the little
room."
An old prayer-rug, with a golden tree of life in its deep blue center,
was the Honorable Margaret's wedding gift; Mark sent a coffee
percolator.
Phyllis sighed.
"She will have a beautiful wedding," she said softly. "Ah, John, you
don't know what that means to a girl."
John poked the fire.
Suddenly Phyllis laughed.
"How could I have forgotten to tell you about the cards?" she continued.
"It was so funny, and so like Peggy Neville. You see,--her card was
fastened to the rug with a bit of ribbon--and on it was written---'With
love and sympathy.' When Peggy saw it she shrieked. 'Oh, Phyllis!' she
said, 'mother's cousin, Caroline Molesworth, has been at the hospital
for a week; day before yesterday she had her surgical operation, and
yesterday I sent flowers. I wrote the cards at home,--and they got
mixed. On hers is written--"May all your days be as full of joy as these
last few days have been!"'"
* * * * *
In the night Phyllis found herself wide awake. She lay quietly
considering a new thought that had come to her, somehow, while she
slept. If she only dared! Oh, no, no! She couldn't ask him. And
yet--She fell asleep again wondering whether--perhaps, just
possibly--she could do it, if she kept her mind firmly fixed on John's
book.